In the haze of fever and weakness, I asked.
And she did.
She stayed when it was inconvenient. When there was no audience. When there was nothing in it for her except the simple act of being there.
Not because she had something to gain.
Because I asked.
The thought makes something shift inside me, subtle but dangerous, like a piece of stone cracking under pressure.
I swallow and test my body carefully. My stomach still feels tender, but the violent nausea is gone. My throat is raw. My skin feels cooler. The fever has broken, leaving behind the exhaustion like a heavy coat.
My arm tightens unintentionally around her thigh as I try to sit up.
Natalia stirs, a small sound in the back of her throat, but she doesn’t wake. Her head tips forward slightly, and I have a brief, sharp panic that she’s going to fall over.
I reach up and steady her shoulder gently.
She doesn’t wake.
She just shifts, her cheek settling against the cushion, still asleep, still stubbornly here.
For a moment, I just sat there, breathing, watching her, trying to understand the shape of this.
Because Natalia has never belonged in my life. Not in the neat, controlled way I keep everything arranged. She arrived like a storm I couldn’t predict, and then refused to leave, and I did what I always do when something gets too close.
I her away—I ran. I made her pay for my fear.
And still she came back.
Not with demands, but with strategy.
With her hands on my forehead and a delivery order on my counter, and a stupid joke about true crime podcasts because she was trying to keep herself from panicking.
My throat tightens.
I don’t want her waking up on my couch like this, stiff-necked and sore, because she spent the night holding my weight like I’m someone worth staying for.
I don’t want her paying physically for a request I shouldn’t have made.
So I make a decision before my mind can argue me out of it.
I slide my arm carefully out from around her leg, moving slowly so I don’t wake her, then stand. My body sways slightly, and I pause, hand gripping the back of the couch until my balance returns.
When I’m steady, I bend and slide one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back.
She’s warm. Light in my arms. Her head rolled against my shoulder, hair brushing my neck.
She murmurs something incoherent, and her hand curls briefly against my chest, a reflex, as if even half-asleep she’s searching for something solid.
I carried her down the short hallway and into my bedroom.
The bed has been unmade for days because I haven’t had the energy to care about anything except not feeling sick, and the sight of it makes me grimace. Still, it’s better than the couch.
I pull the covers back and lower her carefully onto the mattress.
She settles instantly, body relaxing into the softness, her mouth parting slightly as she exhales.
